


Nurgle's Sanctuary

by FiggyPudding (FunkyMeihem)



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Chaos Gods - Freeform, Eldar, F/M, Imprisonment, Isha - Freeform, Kidnapping, Nurgle, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Other, Pining, Romance, WH40K, Warhammer - Freeform, Warhammer40K
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyMeihem/pseuds/FiggyPudding
Summary: They said that he kept Isha in a rusted cage: a beautiful maiden kept in a tiny space much as one would keep a bird, with barely enough room that she could turn about, and cruel hooked metal to keep her in confinement. The stories claimed that she wept there, day in and day out, cutting her hands to ribbons on the bars, all the better for his plagues to seep into her opened veins. They said that he tortured her, that the goddess would curse his name and wished that Slaanesh had kept her…or better yet, destroyed her.None of it was true. Nurgle was nothing if not a gentleman.(Commission for Anon.)





	Nurgle's Sanctuary

They said that he kept Isha in a rusted cage: a beautiful maiden kept in a tiny space much as one would keep a bird, with barely enough room that she could turn about, and cruel hooked metal to keep her in confinement. The stories claimed that she wept there, day in and day out, cutting her hands to ribbons on the bars, all the better for his plagues to seep into her opened veins. They said that he tortured her, that the goddess would curse his name and wished that Slaanesh had kept her…or better yet, destroyed her.

None of it was true. Nurgle was nothing if not a gentleman.

What use was there for him to cage her with cruel bars and punishments? That was not the way one treated their lover. Just as one tended a garden for it to flourish, so did he tend to Isha.

He had seen her from far away, as he saw everything. The god of decay had looked upon the goddess of rejuvenation, and found her most pleasing. She shone as bright as a life-giving sun; so strong yet so gentle, rich and fertile, as succulent as an overripe fruit burst open upon the soil, with its sweet and sour juices pooling in the center. She was screaming for aid, a sweeter sound than all the screams he had heard over the millennia. She screamed to any who would hear her.

He heard her, and he would answer her.

What a fool his young brothersister had been, to try and take Isha as their own. Nurgle heard her cries from across the universe, and for once, his own desires were greater than that of Slaanesh. In a great and roiling putrid tide, Nurgle’s forces had swept forth, and waged war in their name of their All Father. They fell upon Slaanesh’s numbers, crushing and infecting and leaving nothing but rot behind. His younger sibling could not stand such an onslaught for long, and Slaanesh withdrew, leaving Isha behind and relenquishing their prize as a sacrifice for their own escape. Nurgle found her there in the ruin, waiting for him. The goddess could not be left so vulnerable again, and so he invited her to his personal gardens, for her own protection.

In the center of his pestilent Garden he made her sanctuary, protected in the walls of his ruinous mansion. He had created it especially for her, for she deserved it. With his will, he had made a guest quarters for her to be kept in greatest comfort. The ground here was soft, as soft as rotten meat. A gurgling, bubbling brook of his garden’s excretions flowed through its heart. All around it, the The Seers of Lugganath were kept in their grove, weeping and whimpering always. Often times, he would catch her looking at them, her gaze far away. How he wished he knew what she was thinking.

Upon her arrival, Nurgle had gently placed her atop the translucent canker bulge that was to be her bed, kept feverishly warm and pulsing with rot beneath. Foolish Slaanesh had dared to rip her gown, and she sat atop the tattered remains of her dress, cloth bunched below her. Nurgle had chastely offered her cover, from opaque mucus and moldered cloth, to leprous, sloughed skin. But she turned away his suggestions and he did not press her. So, half-nude by her own choice and as beautiful as a companion as anyone could wish for, Isha would sit in his garden.

That was all she would do, was sit. From atop the ragged reams of cloth where he had first set her down, she did not move. He sent Nurglings to laugh and scamper and play at her feet, and she would watch them, but never did she smile at their antics. He sprouted festering blooms and magnificent blight flowers all around her glen, and sent flies and wasps to buzz about with their foul nectar, and she would look but would not touch them. He offered her succulent and delightful treats made from his own bile and flesh, and mushrooms grown on the ribs of her fellow Eldar, and sweet rotting fruits, but she would not eat.

But she would speak to him.

Nurgle delighted in conversation with her, and would spend hours in the grove, exalting in her simple companionship. He would haul his immense bulk into her quarters, sending his servants away just to be alone with his lovely consort. The fluids from his open sores pooled around her bare feet as he towered over her small and delicate body, and they would sit across from one another and simply talk. The conversation would change and flow, as conversation often did; and they would speak about philosophy or dreams and wishes or the fates of mortals or the righteousness of their causes, the benevolent aims of them both despite their opposing natures.

Sometimes, her eyes would find his, and she would ask for him to let her free. But he would merely chuckle and deny her, telling her that it was not time for them to part. Not yet.

Admiration was done from a respectful distance. His defilement was of a different sort than Slaanesh’s. Yes, sometimes he would look upon her and he would wish to place his hand upon her; to guide her chin to look at him or tangle his fingers in her locks until they rotted off, to feel the softness of her skin, to inhale the scent of her hair. He had idle thoughts of suckling at her breast, and taste the sweetness of life-giving milk before it soured on his tongue. But the goddess of fertility remained untouched by lecherous intents. Such was not his way.

He was gentle with her, even though he need not be. The goddess could heal herself of anything he inflicted upon her, and he knew it and was content with it. So long as he did not outright wish to kill her, she would not be destroyed. There was no need for him to press her limits. He kept no secrets from her. And Isha? His lovely woman’s secrets were her own. Occasionally her heard her whispering, but he did not interrupt. It was not his place to ask, and he knew she would not answer him. Not yet. What fascinating thoughts she must have kept from him. Perhaps one day, she would tell him.

Just for her, he slaved over his cauldron, brewing and bubbling and concocting horrors unimaginable. How lucky he was, to strive harder than ever, pushing himself in all realms of creativity to impress his lover. He presented his gifts to her, and the gracious Isha always accepted. Never a moment’s hesitation, she would quaff down all that he gave her. And oh, the things he could give her.

How his poor dear suffered for him. Sweat beaded on her beautiful face, droplets rolling down the curves of her neck and chest. He watched every shining trail across her skin. Fevers and chills swept across her body, wrapping her arms about herself. He wished it was his arms around her. Spasms wracked her graceful form, twisting and wrenching until she threatened to fall. But if is she did, he would be there to catch her. She never wept, but occasionally, during the very worst of them, she could not suppress a whimper. When she did, he knew their time would be at an end for now. He would hush and comfort her from afar, and leave her to her rest. At least until next time. There would always be a next time.

There were the occasional attempts to ‘rescue’ her from him, of course. There was something admittedly ‘gallant’ about the idea of rescuing the trapped princess from the god of decay. They tried. The Eldar had revered and loved her, Slaanesh was still keen on taking her back, Tzeentch would have used her to strike a blow against him, and those fools from Lugganath in particular…An occasional rogue agent was expected, but few were foolish enough to set foot into his garden. Fewer still were those who tried to make it all the way to the heart of her sanctuary, to try and take her from him.

The Lord of Pestilence was a kind and patient soul, but he would not tolerate such dire transgressions. Those who sought to free Isha from his embrace were swiftly caught and punished, and Nurgle’s was a long and enduring form of punishment. They would serve as an object lesson, to teach others what would happen to those who threatened his precious consort. His punishments were so effective that they unnerved Isha herself, to the point where she pleaded for clemency on their behalf. If only he would stop the screaming. The wailing. The gurgling through the things in their mouths. If only he would release them to truly die. Please? For her? Ah. Kind and beautiful thing that she was. But it was for her own good that he punished them so harshly, and there would be no forgiveness here. None would take her from him.

At least, not yet.

It was inevitable that one day Nurgle would lose her. Perhaps in eons to come, she might find a way to free herself as his power waned, or he would become weak or overwhelmed, or his enemies would finally storm his strongholds. And she, beautiful and bright, would burst from the decay around her in a glorious moment that he would give anything to behold, almost as much as he would give to keep her. She would be free…and he would dutifully follow after her, as loyally as death always follows life.

But for now they were together. He adored her, and her world would be nothing but his adoration for as long as it was to last.

Flowers. The noxious blossoms in her sanctuary had been the loveliest of their kinds, but it was not sufficient. Perhaps her glen did not have enough flowers, and more would please her. He would create a new, beautiful pestilent bloom all for her. His followers would spread her flowers across the world, slaughtering and sickening millions in her name. His muse, his inspiration: already he had more ideas for new blights and poxes to give to her before he gifted them to the rest of the world.

He lifted his voice and called out to her. Isha shifted her pale legs atop her bed, chastely wrapped in layers of torn fabric from before he had found her. She combed her fingers through her hair, looking out over the wonders of his Garden, and then looking beyond it at things even Nurgle could not see. Only after a very, very long while did she call back to him. What private thoughts had he interrupted this time? He would give her a little time, take a walk around his paradise, and then go to visit her again.

Perhaps today would be the day. He would drag himself through the little door to her room, to talk to her again. His fluids would weep from his flesh and foul saliva would ooze down his chins. Putrescence would wisp forth upon his breath and make the tips of her hair dance around her, as filthy sweet as the honeyed words he spoke. He would offer her gifts: always more gifts, always greater than the ones before. He would smile at her, revealing row after row of sharpened, rotting teeth.

And he could imagine that, through the wetness in her eyes and the twitching in her pretty lips, she would finally smile back at him.


End file.
